


Piece of Cake

by mataglap



Series: Piece of Cake [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Sombra has a soft spot for McCree and absolutely no reservations.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No excuses, no regrets; I read "Reflections" and I simply could not stand the thought of McCree spending his Christmas drinking alone in some shitty bar.
> 
> There might be a part two, if I can read this without cringing when it's not 3am and I'm not having a serious case of the feels.

Hanzo is hesitating over the leftover Christmas cake, when his communicator pings.

He frowns. By unanimous agreement there are no new missions between Christmas and New Year, and he doesn't have friends or family to send him wishes — except Genji, but they'd already exchanged stilted greetings the previous day. An emergency mission on the Boxing Day? He decides that any emergency can wait five more minutes, until he's had his morning coffee and made a decision about breakfast.

_("I'd like you to do at least one thing you **want** to do," his therapist had said, looking at him over her notes, "every day if you can manage it, but as often as you can, otherwise. I'd also like you to write it down. It would be best if it was something you had previously denied yourself out of a sense of duty or obligation. It would also be best if it was legal and not harmful, of course.")_

Hanzo snorts softly, grabs the holopad and scribbles "entirely unhealthy cake for breakfast" right under the previous day's entry of "ridiculously expensive christmas cake, all for myself".

The cake came from an upmarket store and costed more than any sane person should ever pay for a baked product. Hanzo decided he didn't mind; it was still a better use of the Shimada money than what it had seen in the past. 

The comm pings again a few minutes later. The coffee is ready and a generous slice of cake has been cut; there are no more excuses. He sighs, drops onto the hotel bed, takes a bite of cake and brings up the display, ready to face whatever emergency the world decided to come up with this time.

**_11:44 [UNKNOWN]_** did you really believe McCree when he said he's got friends?!

**_11:47 [UNKNOWN]_** can't believe anyone would fall for that

His frown deepens. He's fairly sure his comm blocks anonymous messages. 

_**11:48 >**_ who is this? 

No reply. Hanzo taps the shortcut for Athena's channel.

"Happy holidays, Agent Hanzo," murmurs Athena. "How can I help you?"

"Do we block anonymous comms, Athena?" he asks, fruitlessly poking the [UNKNOWN] in an attempt to bring up some information.

"Yes, Agent Hanzo. Messages without verified source are automatically rejected."

"Why is there a message from an unknown sender on my comm, then?"

Athena pauses for a split second. "My logs indicate that the last message you've received was yesterday at 17:16 JST, Agent Hanzo. No activity has been recorded since."

Well. That's worrying.

"I have just received two messages from a source without an ID tag. Can you please scan my comm and try to determine how they got there?"

Another pause; when Athena speaks again, her calmly robotic voice is tinged with definite worry. "This is most concerning. I will perform diagnostics immediately. Should I wipe the suspicious messages?"

Hanzo reads the two lines again. They aren't particularly menacing… and they seem to concern McCree. Perhaps this is merely a malfunction of the comm network, caused by the inevitable holiday-related overload, and the message is simply from one of his colleagues. He knows of at least two persons who would refer to the cowboy in this sort of manner.

"Leave them for now, please. Unless they contain malicious code."

"They appear to be clean, although I cannot yet determine the source. I will inform you immediately when I have more details."

"Thank you, Athena."

As he glances at the holo again, a new line pops up. And another.

_**11:51 [UNKNOWN]**_ he said he was going out to meet a friend, didn't he

_**11:51 [UNKNOWN]**_ only he forgot to mention the friend's initials are JD and he comes in a bottle

_**11:52 UNKNOWN has sent a picture: <dumbass.png>**_

The photo undeniably displays McCree, slouching over a bottle of amber liquor. Hanzo stares for longer than he'd like to admit. McCree's bearded chin is resting on his prosthetic palm; he's not wearing gloves, and the strong fingers of his remaining hand are wrapped around a half-filled tumbler. He's facing away from the camera. Judging by the angle, the photo was made without his knowledge, sneakily, probably from a device lying upon the bar surface.

They held an official Christmas call three days ago, with nearly every active agent dialing in. It was Reinhardt, endlessly and disarmingly enthusiastic about the upcoming holidays, who asked about everyone's plans for Christmas, and in most cases the answer was a variation of the same: going home, meeting family and friends. Reinhardt had been invited to Torbjorn's place — thirteenth year in a row, as he proudly declared; Lucio was flying out to Rio, but coming back for a New Year's Eve concert in London; Tracer with her girlfriend were supposed to visit Winston back in Gibraltar; Mei was visiting Hana in Korea, and Genji and Zenyatta did not celebrate, but retreated to the Shambali monastery to do… whatever it was the monks were doing in their spare time.

Hanzo, freshly back from Numbani and still moderately jetlagged, did not have any particular plans. On a whim, he had decided to fly back to Japan; checking up on the restoration of the Hanamura castle was as good an excuse as any to politely reject Genji's invitation to join him in Nepal.

Jesse McCree, the last one to talk, declared cheerfully that he'd take a break from whatever he was doing in Mexico and catch up with an old friend, and that was that; Winston announced he'd schedule the next catch-up meeting after the New Year, they all bid each other happy holidays, and Tracer suggested she'd send something out about a New Year's Eve pub meet after Boxing Day.

Hanzo bites his lip thoughtfully. Had McCree lied? Why would he have, though? Who's watching him? Are they the friend McCree was supposed to meet? And why are they messaging Hanzo, of all people, and through some mysterious anonymizer as well?

Is McCree really spending his Christmas drinking alone in some dingy bar?

So many questions. He _hates_ unanswered questions.

_**11:54 >**_ are you the friend he was supposed to meet? 

The answer pops up so fast he gets an unpleasant feeling of being watched, even though his strange informant is, apparently, somewhere in Dorado.

_**11:54 [UNKNOWN]**_ I just told you. he's got no friends, just a bottle of shitty booze

_**11:54 [UNKNOWN]**_ he lied because he's an idiot 

Hanzo huffs, fingers pausing briefly over the holokeys.

_**11:55 >**_ he is, but I still don't know who you are or why you're informing me about his unfortunate condition.

_**11:55 [UNKNOWN]**_ take a fucking guess

_**11:56 [UNKNOWN]**_ anyway I'm outta here. I fulfilled my good deed quota for this year

The comm falls silent. Hanzo hesitates for a moment, then scrolls back up and stares at the image.

McCree's face might not be in view, but somehow he still looks tired. Sad. Dejected, even. Or is it Hanzo's imagination talking? Perhaps the cowboy simply enjoys a moment's peace from endless assignments?

Right. Jesse McCree, the most relentlessly social member of Overwatch, seeking solitude on the most family-oriented holiday of the year.

Hanzo sighs, closes the comm and chews on his cake. The sweetness is suddenly overpowering; his stomach churns unpleasantly, as if issuing a warning. 

As he tries to wash away the taste with a gulp of coffee, the comm pings one last time. It's another photo. This one is from a different angle, away from the bar, as if taken on the way out. McCree is slumped on the counter, face hidden in the bend of his elbow. The tumbler is empty.

Hanzo swears quietly, sets the mug on the nightstand with a thump and makes a call.

* * *

McCree isn't in a hurry to pick up; it takes three tries until the call connects.

"Hanzo?" asks a hoarse voice. There's no video feed. "What's on fire?"

Hanzo raises his eyebrows at the empty display. "Would you mind turning the video on?"

On the other side of the world, McCree hesitates, swears quietly, says something to the bartender in quick, muffled Spanish. "One sec, let me get outta here." 

There's a minute of shuffling sounds and echoing steps, sounds of doors opening and closing, and finally, the video feed comes online. Wherever it is, it's dark; McCree's face is a barely visible, grainy outline.

"Perhaps turn the light on?" Hanzo suggests.

McCree emits a vague mumble of disgust and reaches above the camera. A harsh light comes on, illuminating his features. He's disheveled and red-eyed; apparently, he's in a car. "Any other requests? Want me to sing a song, maybe do a little jig?"

"That would be appropriately festive, I believe," Hanzo deadpans. 

McCree snorts and rubs a hand across his face, through his hair. "Did you call me and drag me out of the bar just to sass me?"

"I called to wish you a merry Christmas." Hanzo lifts the coffee mug in a mock toast. 

McCree stares at him blankly, blinks owlishly, rubs his eyes with doubled energy. "What?"

"Merry Christmas, Jesse McCree. It is still Christmas over there, isn't it? You look like shit. Were you planning to drink yourself under a table?"

The jab has the desired effect of McCree straightening up, all indignation. "Hold up now. How the hell do you know what I've been up to? Don't tell me Winston's been putting trackers on the agents."

"Not Winston, but I do believe you're being watched by someone. I've received anonymous messages about your whereabouts. Including photographs."

McCree narrows his eyes, leans towards the camera. "Whaddya mean, anonymous?"

Hanzo shrugs. "I mean anonymous. Someone got around Athena's security to inform me that a certain cowboy is attempting to drown in a bottle on the Christmas day."

"Someone anonymous," repeats McCree, slowly. "Got through Athena's security. To tell you what I'm up to, of all people. Fucking hell. Cover your ears or somethin', 'cause I need to yell a little." He takes a deep breath and smashes both fists on the steering wheel, a startlingly sudden movement. "SOMBRA! STOP FUCKIN' SNOOPING ON ME!"

"You know my mysterious informant, I gather," says Hanzo drily, attempting not to smile while McCree looks around wildly, as if expecting that Sombra person to appear out of thin air. "They said they were leaving, though."

"If that nosy bitch is around, you bet she's _still_ snoopin' somehow," growls McCree. "I'll have to search every inch of this car for bugs, later. And my room. And body orifices, probably."

"Thank you for that mental image. Either way, she does not seem hostile, since she informed me of your unfortunate condition." 

"And you cared?" McCree asks, disbelievingly.

"Traditionally, it is time for good deeds," Hanzo replies with all the calm dignity he can muster. He refuses to be flustered by the way McCree is now staring at him. "Offering company to the lonely is a good deed, and since I can't physically keep you company, I've decided to call."

McCree sputters a little at the word "lonely". "I'm not— It's not a big deal! Can't a man have a drink in peace?"

"Weren't you supposed to be meeting with a friend?" Hanzo points out. McCree makes a face, sighs, leans back in the seat. 

"Okay, so I wasn't. Just — didn't want to spoil anyone's mood, announcing I'd be sittin' here all by my lonesome, watching paint dry on Lumerico's office front. You know how Reinhardt is."

Hanzo huffs. "You could have come back to Gibraltar. I believe Winston and Tracer were holding a Christmas dinner."

"Nah, that was a family thing they had. You know Winston's like Tracer's big brother. Didn't feel like bein' a third wheel. Plus Winston's always on about expenses, pretty sure he wouldn't be too happy if I decided to take a trip across half the world just to sample his cooking."

"McCree," Hanzo says sternly. "You're the soul of every social occasion, and Tracer appears to adore you. I'm sure they would have welcomed you with open arms."

There's silence, some more silence, then McCree gives a defeated sigh and tilts his head back onto the headrest, folding his arms behind it.

"Fine, so I had other reasons. Which I would like to keep to myself, if it's all the same to you."

Hanzo momentarily forgets what he was going to say, distracted by the sight. He attempts to take a drink of coffee, finds the mug empty, puts it back slowly. The silence drags on.

_(Do at least one thing you **want** to do, every day.)_

"Do you know about Japanese Christmas cakes?" he blurts, before he can second guess himself. This is stupid, the idea he's just had is stupid. His suddenly elevated heart rate is ridiculous. 

McCree's confused half-smile at the non sequitur makes up for it, though.

"Nope. They special?"

Hanzo clears his throat and attempts to maintain an even tone. "Yes. I have some left over from yesterday." He lifts his plate in demonstration. 

McCree perks up, looking at the cake with visible longing and appreciation. "That looks mighty tasty, partner."

"I'm willing to share. I'm also willing to explain the tradition of Christmas cakes and share a drink, if you stop moping around, get to the nearest telestation and meet me in London."

McCree's mouth falls open, closes, opens again. A rare sight — the cowboy, speechless. "You… what?"

A strange sort of calm overtakes him. This is it; this is the big thing he's wanted to do. It feels like another set of shackles falling off. He feels light. Buoyant. Free.

"I said," he says with a smirk, pointing at the display with the the half-eaten piece of cake, "I'm inviting you to meet me in London for a proper celebration of the holidays. Cake, drinks and good company included. I believe Tracer had suggested something of the sort on Thursday; we can send out an invite to the rest, if you wish."

He's treated to a unique sight of McCree being visibly flustered. The cowboy attempts to say something, huffs out a half-laugh mid-word, reaches for his missing hat, ends up rubbing his forehead instead. It's… adorable.

"Heh. Okay. All right. You know I can't resist a cake. Is that a strawberry on it?"

"It's _covered_ in strawberries. And cream." Hanzo's smirk grows into a grin, but he finds he doesn't care anymore; whatever facial expression he's got now, McCree's is definitely dumber.

McCree shakes his head, reaches to the side, comes back with his hat, sticks it on his head at a jaunty angle. "Just make it a good slice. I'm countin' on that cake, now."

"Glad to see where your priorities lie, McCree," he says as drily as he can muster through the insistent smile. 

He's rewarded with a genuine laugh. "Not gonna say no to a good drink, either. They wouldn't know a good whisky 'round here if it kicked 'em in the nuts. And hell, I guess there's worse company to be had than sour-faced archers with a stick up their ass."

He doesn't dignify that with a reply; instead, he schools his features back into neutrality and raises his eyebrows.

"Seriously, though… thanks," says McCree, suddenly awkwardly serious. "That's… mighty kind of you."

He busies himself with putting the plate away, uncomfortable. "It's what friends do. Or so I am told. Don't thank me, just get to London. It's in my own interest as well, to have some company."

"Alright," says McCree, all business now. "I'll see what I can do about the telestation. Might be some slots free before folks go back home after Christmas. I'll let ya know. Can always hop on a plane if teleportin's out of the question."

"And I will send out a comm to Tracer and others," agrees Hanzo, glad to be back on stable ground, "see who wants to join and if we can find a decent place to book."

McCree pushes the hat deeper onto his head, tweaks the brim and flashes a sudden grin. "It's a date."

With a sound of the car starting, the connection breaks off.

Hanzo takes a deep breath and reaches for the holopad.


End file.
